


Countdown

by prairiecrow



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Medical Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garak is poisoned, and Bashir finds himself in a race against time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5

**Author's Note:**

> A stand-alone story set a couple of months after "The Wire". See the author. See the author handwave medical terminology. Handwave, handwave, handwave!

They were just coming back from lunch when Julian Bashir noticed that something was subtly but definitely wrong.

Normally his friend Garak — Elim Garak, if Enabran Tain was to be believed — moved with easy economical grace, casual yet elegant, and always perfectly balanced. But as Bashir walked him back to his shop he noticed that the Cardassian’s stride was strangely off-rhythm. It was the kind of impairment he’d usually associate with a very mild level of alcoholic intoxication, but Garak hadn’t seemed at all affected by it when he’d approached their usual table in the Replimat an hour earlier and he’d had nothing to drink with his lunch but rokassa juice.

Garak noticed his sidelong look and paused as they reached the door to his tailoring business, turning to face his Human companion. “Is something wrong, Doctor? Do I have a loose thread somewhere?”

His voice was affected too, its usually smooth and precise modulation slightly out of tune. Bashir looked him over more closely. “Garak, have you had...?”

The question died on his lips. Garak was looking at him expectantly with blue eyes a little darker than usual: his pupils were rapidly dilating. And there was something caught on the thick fabric at the neck of his tunic, just where the trapezial scales disappeared under the black brocade. Bashir reached out and almost touched the small pointed object — not a loose thread, but a tiny dart only a centimeter from a spot of dried blood on the Cardassian’s twilight grey skin.

“You’ve been shot,” Bashir said, just before Garak, still smiling, sank to his knees and would have collapsed sideways onto the floor of the Promenade if Bashir’s quick reflexes hadn’t caught him. He carefully but quickly laid Garak down on his back, noting the sudden loss of both muscle tone and the ability to speak: Garak’s lips were moving but no articulate words were coming out, only a kind of hissing gasp.

Ignoring the curious stares of nearby pedestrians, Bashir tapped his combadge. “Bashir to Ops. Medical emergency. Two to beam to the Infirmary.” As their bodies dissolved into a stream of flowing energy he reflected that it was the second time he’d had cause to issue that particular request in less than two months as far as Garak was concerned.  _What now?_  he wondered as the Infirmary’s walls appeared around him and Nurse Jabara immediately moved to assist him. He already knew the answer:  _Another mystery to solve, that’s what..._

******************************

Less than thirty minutes later he was explaining things to Odo. Or trying to.

“The dart was tipped with a ketamisine compound,” Bashir said, indicating a micromolecular scan rotating on the Infirmary’s main screen. “It’s unlike anything we have in our database, but evidently it’s highly effective on Cardassian neurochemistry.” He glanced across the room toward Garak, who was lying on a biobed with monitors attached to his ridged forehead, unmoving. “It’s attached itself to his large-cell ganglia and is shutting them down. His central nervous system is slowly being deactivated.”

Odo folded his arms and contemplated the image. “Huh. Ketamisine is often employed by Nimidian assassins, and they seem to take great pleasure in devising new permutations on the same old theme. I’m not surprised it’s not in your database, considering that it was probably created this week.”

“It’s killing him,” Bashir said flatly. “He has less than twelve hours before he suffers irreversible organ failure.”

“If that dart had fully embedded you’d be speaking in the past tense. He only received a fraction of the intended dose.”

“Do you know of any antidote?”

“I take it you don’t.”

“Ketamisine is highly toxic, and once it takes root in the CNS it replicates itself, almost like a virus. Conventional antitoxins are practically useless.”

“Unfortunately I have no idea. All I know is that Nimidian assassins have a very high kill rate.” His eyes slid sidelong to consider the inert Cardassian. “It looks like one of his hypothetical enemies has finally caught up with him.”

“Have any Nimidians been on the station today?” 

“I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out. If there have been, it won’t be hard to hold them on a charge of attempted murder that’s going to be upgraded in less than a day.” He offered a curt nod. “Keep me posted, Doctor.”

“I will.” Bashir watched Odo leave, no doubt headed for the Security office to start searching arrival and departure records, then turned his attention back to his patient. Garak’s eyes were closed — Bashir had closed them himself — but neural scans clearly indicated that he was still conscious. He’d lost control of his non-autonomic functions but his mind was still awake and aware... and now he’d heard the prognosis. A death sentence, really, from his friend’s own lips.

Bashir rose and crossed to him, looking down at him and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, Garak. I’m going to start looking for an antidote immediately, and I’m not going to give up until I find one.” He applied gentle reassuring pressure to the base of the trapezial ridge. “Try to stay calm, and don’t give up, because I’m not. I’ll be here with you, no matter what happens. You won’t be alone.”

Garak’s eyelids flickered. That was all the response he was capable of. Wishing that he could do more, but not sure what that ‘more’ might be, Bashir removed his hand and went back to the main console. Taking a seat in front of it, he studied the molecular scan one more time and leaned back, rotating it in his mind. “Computer, what is the prognosis for patient Elim Garak?”

 _“Patient Elim Garak is undergoing progressive central nervous system failure due to ketamisine compound poisoning. The patient will experience irreversible organ damage in eleven hours, twenty-seven minutes.”_

No change, then. “Computer, append neuropeptide sequence A-12 from the Cardassian database to the offside terminal of the ketamisine sample molecule and execute test sequence one.”

 _“Please specify goal of test sequence.”_

“To neutralize the neurotoxin and decompile its molecular structure while leaving Cardassian central nervous system structures intact.”

 _“Acknowledged.”_  A pause, followed by a flat beep.  _“Toxin unaffected.”_

Bashir drew a deep breath. He hadn’t expected the first attempt to succeed. “Computer, append neuropeptide sequence A-12 to the nearside terminal of the sample and execute test sequence two.”

A pause. Another beep.  _“Toxin unaffected.”_

Bashir cast his mind through the peptide database, looking for one that would fit the pattern on the screen before him, like a key in a lock. “Computer, append neuropeptide sequence A-37 to the offside terminal of...”

It was going to be a very long afternoon.

******************************

He had reached test sequence fifty-eight and Garak had seven hours and twenty-three minutes left to live when a dry little voice from behind him called his name.

“Doctor Julian Bashir?”

“Computer, pause sequence.” He swivelled his chair to see a small neat figure standing by the door, regarding him through wrap-around dark lenses that protected her sensitive eyes from the station’s lighting. Bekarans were noted for their intelligence and meticulous attention to detail, and in consequence many of them gravitated to law as a profession, which was the function that this woman served on DS9. Bashir tried to remember her name but came up blank; her office was in a shop on the opposite side of the Promenade and he’d never had occasion to use her services. “Can I help you, Ms...?”

She inclined her chin in a stiff little bow. “N’noal Tessar, at your service. Or rather, at Mr. Garak’s service.” In her narrow hands she held a small box of dark metal, perhaps fifteen centimeters by fifteen centimeters by six centimeters. “I understand he’s not expected to recover?”

Bashir’s eyebrows rose. “News travels fast.”

“On this station, especially so — and I was warned to listen for this particular piece of intelligence.” She indicated Garak’s still body with another nod of her chin. “He is still alive?”

“Yes, he is.”

“But not expected to recover?”

“He’s been poisoned. The prognosis is not good.”

“Then this,” she said, approaching him and holding out the box, “is for you.”

He frowned at the box, then up at her. “I don’t understand, and I really don’t have time for —”

Tessar cocked her head. “Doctor Bashir, a month and a half ago Mr. Garak had a will drawn up in accordance with Bajoran laws. It specifies you as heir to all his property, including the contents of this box. I was instructed to deliver it to you immediately should this sort of situation arise.”

She held out the box again. This time Bashir rose to his feet and took it. “Thank you, Ms. Tessar. But we’re hard at work searching for an antidote. There’s a chance that he may yet recover.”

Tessar waved a bird-boned hand. “I can only proceed according to the instructions presented to me, Doctor Bashir. And now I have fulfilled them.” Another little bow. “Shall I expect you at my office once your... business here has been concluded? We have much to discuss concerning the disposition of Mr. Garak’s property.”

“I —” Bashir swallowed, suddenly running up hard against the fact that Garak would probably not survive the night. “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Then good day to you.” She bobbed her head in an alien gesture of parting and walked back out onto the Promenade, leaving Bashir staring at the box in his hands. His gaze quickly shifted to the Cardassian in question, mute and unable to tell him just what the hell this was all about.

Since he couldn’t question the source of this new development, Bashir did the next best thing: he sat back down at the console, set the box in his lap, and opened it.


	2. Chapter 2

The box was almost empty. It contained exactly two items: a small grey PADD and a crimson data rod.

Frowning, Bashir picked up the PADD and keyed it on. A password prompt came up, but it took him only three tries to guess  _Enabran_  and gain access to the database, which turned out to consist of legal documents and an inventory list for Garak’s shop on the Promenade, updated the previous day and apparently once a week since the incident with the Obsidian Order implant. He searched but found nothing of a more personal nature — no letters, no video messages, not so much as an audio file saying “Hello!”

His eyes turned to the data rod. Three seconds later he had it inserted into the Infirmary’s computer, and four seconds later he was disappointed:  _”This data rod is readable only by a holosuite matrix.”_

He levelled another look at Garak, who remained resolutely uncommunicative. “A holosuite program?” he asked anyway. Removing the rod from the port, he leaned back in his seat and studied its red length, the way it caught the light with liquid highlights. “You left me a list of your current inventory and a holosuite program?”

Silence. Bashir sighed with exasperation and raised his gaze to glare at the molecular model rotating serenely on the big screen. It was no more informative than his Cardassian patient. For several seconds he weighed the options, coming to a reluctant conclusion: the holosuite scenario might contain valuable clues to what had happened here. The most efficient thing to do would be to turn it over to Odo for the Constable to investigate...

... but it hadn’t been left to Odo. It was intended for him, and Garak was an intensely private individual; it was meant for Bashir’s eyes, and no others. If the tailor had wanted Odo to see this program he’d have found a way to get it to him...

 _Or maybe he counted on me doing it for him._  Bashir shook his head. Sometimes — no, usually — thinking about Garak’s motives led one in circles, and that way lay madness. He made a decision and closed the box again with the PADD inside. “Computer, continue to monitor patient Elim Garak and inform me immediately if his condition changes beyond the projected parameters of deterioration.”

 _”Affirmative.”_

“Also,” he continued, rising from his seat to lock the box in the small storage locker currently containing Garak’s clothes, “continue with the neuropeptide sequence analysis, exhausting all possible combinations at all intersections involving A-78, D-4, K-8, T-9 and F-65. If I’m not back by the time that’s finished, contact me for further instructions.” He was already fairly certain that none of those configurations would work based on the options he’d previously eliminated, but there was always possible that he’d get lucky.

 _”Acknowledged.”_

“Nurse Jabara?” The Bajoran’s sleek head appeared around a doorway as she leaned back in her own chair at the station where she was preparing the monthly activity report. “Make sure he rests comfortably, would you? If Odo comes back, please tell him I’ve gone to Quark's to use one of the holosuites.” Then, accepting her nod and ignoring her puzzled look, he set off with a determined stride and the data rod in his hand. 

******************************

Quark was behind the bar polishing a glass and was evidently surprised to see him, although the Ferengi smiled widely as usual at his approach. “Doctor Bashir! Can I get you a drink?” His tone grew wheedling. “Something to ease your nerves?”

“No, thank you.” He leaned an elbow on the bar and held up the rod. “I need a suite. Do you have one free?”

Quark set the glass aside at once. “They’re all in use except Number Two, and that one’s booked for a party of four at 18:30.”

Twenty-two minutes. Enough time to get a sense of the lay of the land, anyway. Bashir straightened. “That will do nicely.”

Keying instructions to the suite at a console set behind the bar, Quark gave him another, more narrow glance. “Are you sure I can’t get you something? Saurian brandy, maybe? You look like you could use one.”

Amused, Bashir asked: “Why this sudden concern for my welfare?”

Quark shrugged. “No reason.” He paused and leaned a little closer, speaking low so that the patrons at nearby tables wouldn’t hear him, although Morn was watching with silent interest. “Word is that Garak’s on the way out. I just thought maybe —”

“I don’t drink on duty, Quark, and I wouldn’t start planning his funeral yet.” He heard Quark’s console beep and offered him a brief nod before heading away up the stairs to the second level. Behind him he heard Quark mutter something to Morn but didn’t quite catch the words, nor was he particularly interested in what the bartender had to say. The data rod seemed to be burning his fingers now, full of secrets — maybe Garak’s last challenge to him. He didn’t pause at the holosuite door: he immediately inserted the rod into the empty slot beside it, and entered the instant a soft chime indicated that the program was loaded.

A hot breeze struck his face as the door hissed closed behind him. He was standing in a small clearing in an ancient forest, the trees tall and vaguely coniferous and filling the air with a musky astringent scent. Harsh sunlight filtered down to where he stood amidst thigh-high dry grasses lined with tiny clustered flowers of pristine white. As he looked around a flash of movement caught his eye three meters up at the edge of his peripheral vision: he turned to his left just in time to see a lithe little winged reptile, its grey hide patterned with muted jewel tones, scamper to the end of a long branch and launch itself into space, gliding ahead of him to land on a boulder that stood at the head of a path leading away between the trees. It slithered up to the point of the rock and settled itself in the sunshine, closing its obsidian eyes blissfully as it flared a brilliant blue crest to soak up more of the warmth.

Taking this as a hint, Bashir started toward the path; the grasses shed their minute petals against his legs, leaving his black uniform patterned with pale abstract flecks. The heat was already oppressive and he could feel sweat trickling down the small of his back, but he ignored the discomfort, alert for any other clues buried in the simulation. As he passed the boulder the flying lizard warbled at him without opening its eyes, but when he paused it remained motionless, so he moved on.

The path was bare earth between smooth trunks, dusted with shed needles from the trees above. They crunched under his feet and sent up even more scent as he followed the trail downward, looking around intently but seeing no other signs of life. He was beginning to suspect where he was — the heat alone was a tell-tale sign — and wondered if this was a real place that Garak had once known on his homeworld. Whatever it was, it had its own strange beauty and the background silence did not feel oppressive: instead it had an invigorating quality, making Bashir feel more awake and attentive. He just hoped that Garak hadn’t seen fit to send him on a long hike, given the short amount of time he had to investigate the program.

Less than five minutes later he had his answer: the sound of water trickling up ahead and a sense that the air around him was getting fractionally cooler. He descended a steeper section of the path with a ragged rock face on one side and dense trees on the other, then emerged into another clearing, this one tucked between the cliff and a spring-fed stream that chattered away down a rocky slope toward a truly breathtaking landscape: the forest marching down to a vast plain in the middle distance, its shades of brown and dusky green painted with the shadows of clouds streaming by high overhead. It stretched to the horizon, where dim mountains extended in serried ranks from one end of the panorama to the other.

It was much cooler here by the water, which was a great relief to Bashir’s Human core temperature. And Garak stood close by the spring with his hands clasped behind his back, contemplating the vista before him. As Bashir stepped off the path he turned and smiled with evident pleasure. “Ah, Doctor! Ms. Tessar has discharged her obligation, I see. So,” he said jovially, “tell me — how did I die?”


	3. Chapter 3

Bashir almost said:  _You’re not dead yet_ , but he knew that if he told the truth this simulation of Garak would probably just send him away until the real Garak was no longer in the picture. So instead he prevaricated: “You were shot with a poisoned dart containing a ketamisine compound.”

The image of Garak, clad in trim black clothing that covered him almost to the jawline, looked both surprised and pleased. “A Nimidian assassin?” He smiled more widely when Bashir nodded. “Well, it’s nice to know that whoever ordered my death cared enough to hire the very best.” He turned back toward the landscape stretched out before them and made a sweeping gesture. “What do you think of the view?”

“It’s very impressive.” He moved closer to stand at fake!Garak’s side, and for a moment they both gazed down the path that the stream was taking. “Is this a real place on Cardassia Prime?”

Fake!Garak nodded. “A wilderness preserve in the Marsatak province, one of the few unspoiled natural landscapes left on the planet, I’m sad to say.” He sighed a tad wistfully. “It pleased me to think that my final moments, so to speak, would be spent here with you. While I appreciate Cardassian station architecture, five unremitting years of it tends to wear rather thin.” He glanced sidelong at Bashir, then turned to face him fully. “I  _am_ pleased that you’re here, Doctor. There are some things you ought to know.”

Bashir couldn’t help but smile in return as he faced fake!Garak in turn. “I’ve learned my lesson about getting the truth out of you, Garak. I’ll listen, but you can’t expect me to believe anything you say.”

The Cardassian’s image acknowledged this with a little bow of his chin. “If I was killed using poison, I take it that my shop survived intact?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

“Then you’ll find the inventory list on the PADD invaluable. My quarters are rather spartan: if you choose to clear them out yourself it shouldn’t take too much time to do so.” He paused. “The contents are yours to do with as you like, but I will suggest that you keep the small Hebitian sculpture of the Solar Spirit that you’ll find on the third shelf of the display case. In addition to being quite valuable it’s a piece I acquired early in my career, and I’ve always treasured it. The thought of you having it one day has also brought me no small amount of pleasure.”

Bashir’s throat suddenly tightened. “I’ll... I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”

“Now, Doctor!” His tone grew chiding. He stepped closer and reached up to touch Bashir’s face, laying his hand fondly against the Human’s cheek. “I wouldn’t expect a Starfleet officer to cry. Please don’t disappoint me.”

Bashir found himself leaning into the touch, hollow and illusory as it was. “What else do you expect me to do?” He closed his eyes and felt the sting of tears, thinking of what would happen if he couldn’t figure out the chemical puzzle confronting him back in the Infirmary. “Go on as if nothing’s happened?”

“Nothing  _has_  happened,” fake!Garak assured him gently. “An exile has met his end, a man who long ago ceased to exist in any sense that mattered. Nothing worth noticing, and certainly nothing worth mourning.”

“You matter to me.” He reached up and covered fake!Garak’s hand with his, trying to connect with the shell of electricity. Opening his eyes, he met a gaze both kind and cold. “You always have. And I’m not going to let you go that easily!”

“Oh, my dear Doctor,” fake!Garak murmured with that infuriating smile of his, the one that added the unspoken word  _foolish_  to any statement. “It’s too late for that, and you know it. But,” and he moved closer yet, “I have one more gift to offer you, one I doubt you’ll find as appealing as the image of the Solar Spirit. It’s certainly far less valuable, although you may appreciate it as a curiousity.” 

He was studying Bashir’s face intently, as if committing it to memory. Bashir found himself frozen in place when fake!Garak leaned in, and a little up, and kissed him. The image of the Cardassian took his time, and when he was finished Bashir stared at him in mute disbelief, his eyes huge. 

The hologram smiled wryly. “I take it that’s something I never got around to doing while I was alive.”

“Garak —” He was shocked right down to the soles of his feet — but not unpleasantly so. That realization was a shock in itself. “You —”

“Hush, my dear. Just listen.” He shifted both hands to rest lightly on Bashir’s upper arms and leaned closer again to speak softly into his ear. “My life has been immeasurably brightened by your presence. You made an exile’s bleak existence bearable, and for that, I could never thank you enough. There are so many things I regret never being able to teach you, but rest assured that the desire was always there, from the moment I first saw you sitting in the Replimat, drinking one of your innumerable cups of Tarkalian tea.” His hands tightened briefly, a warm comforting squeeze. “Your friendship alone was enough.”

Bashir opened his mouth again, only to have it covered again by those cool grey lips. His eyes drifted closed and he found himself shivering with tension, with hunger, with a heat that had nothing to do with ambient temperature of the air around them. He caught hold of the Cardssian’s sturdy waist and pulled him closer, kissing him back, even though it was all an illusion, patterns of light and energy that contained no soul, only the ghost of another’s will.

“Goodbye,” fake!Garak whispered, and the sensory cues of the virtual environment vanished, leaving Bashir bereft. His eyes flew open to see the grid pattern of an empty holodeck.

“Computer! Reactivate last program.”

 _“Unable to comply.”_

“Unable to — why not?”

 _“The program Garak 3275 has been erased.”_

Stunned, Bashir stood where he was for several seconds. Then he exited the holodeck with considerable speed, yanking the useless data rod out of its dock as he passed and heading straight for the Infirmary.


	4. Chapter 4

Quark looked up again as he came down the stairs, taking them two at a time with the data rod clutched in his fist; one look at Bashir’s face and whatever question the Ferengi intended to ask clearly died on his lips. His stare followed Bashir as he headed out onto the Promenade at barely less than a sprint, sensing that his demeanor was drawing attention from the bar’s other patrons but far too preoccupied to really acknowledge it: his head was too busy spinning, full of amazement and disbelief and rapidly growing anger.

 _You couldn’t —_  His thoughts stuttered, cycling back over fake!Garak’s words, his expressions, those final kisses.  _I don’t — if you — you can’t —!_  But Garak could, and he had, and unless Bashir could pull a miracle out of his pocket it was too late to do anything about it except listen to the rattle of his final breath. The thought made him feel like he was shaking apart. He was trained to handle illness and trauma and death, but this — no doctor ever expected something like this. Even paralyzed and speechless, Garak had still managed to slice right through his professional armor and strike his emotional core. It would have almost been admirable if it hadn’t been so devastatingly effective.

The half-run back to the Infirmary passed in a blur of pedestrians (including Odo, barely perceived off to one side, his blue eyes sharp with suspicion as Bashir passed by without even looking at him), broken at last by the brief flash of his own features reflected in the doors just before they opened to admit him: he saw himself looking like an Arabic dragon, eyes afire, cheekbones flushed with furious heat. Every sense was sharpened with adrenaline: the clatter of the useless data rod as he cast it aside on the console without looking where he threw it, the pounding of the blood in his veins, the shadowed scales on Garak’s peaceful face and the scent of the Cardassian’s hair and skin when he went to the biobed and leaned over it, glaring down at the eyes that might never open again, that would probably never again communicate with sparkle or flash or smoulder the various shades of Garak’s moods, and he said in a hiss too low for Nurse Jabara to hear in the next room over:

“You  _bastard_.” He had to clutch the edge of the bed to keep his hands from trembling. “You couldn’t have said a word while —”  _While you were alive_ , but he thrust that thought away savagely. “— when you were in a condition to actually  _discuss_  this?” He shook his head helplessly. He almost laughed. “I don’t believe this! Most of the time I can’t shut you up, and now, when it matters...”

Garak did not rise to the challenge. He lay there dying. Whatever his trapped mind was experiencing lay beyond Bashir’s power to determine.

He leaned closer, staring into that calm unresponsive face. “When you wake up we’re going to talk about a lot of things, including everything you always wanted to teach me.” Reaching down, he took Garak’s cold hand in his and remembered this same biobed two months back, and a similar gesture. Had the meaning been the same and he’d just been too blind to realize it? Was it ever golng to matter? “In fact, we’re going to do a lot more than talk — you can count on it.”

Heart pounding, hectic color still burning on his cheeks, he let go and turned away from the biobed — to find Odo standing in the doorway, watching him with wary eyes. “Doctor,” he said carefully, not quite making it a question.

Bashir straightened, squaring his shoulders inside his uniform, and met the Changeling’s gaze firmly. “Yes, Constable?”

“I...”  _Couldn’t help overhearing_ , Bashir half-expected him to say, but instead he continued: “... was told by your nurse that you’d gone to Quark’s.”

“I did, yes.” He wasn’t in the mood for a lot of conversation at the moment, except with the one person who couldn’t answer his questions.

“I also understand that N’noal Tessar delivered a storage box into your possession on Garak’s orders.”

Bashir raised an eyebrow and for the second time that day observed: “News travels fast.”

Odo lifted his chin a little, but he looked almost apologetic. “Are the two incidents connected?”

“Meaning?”

“What was in the box, Doctor?”

Bashir didn’t look away. “Is it pertinent to your investigation?”

“Not at this point,” Odo admitted, “but it soon may be. And if that’s the case —”

“If that’s the case,” Bashir replied, letting fire flare in his gaze, “you can ask me if and when it becomes relevant. Until then the contents of the box is a matter between Garak and myself.”

After a moment Odo nodded. “At the very least, could you tell me what was on the data rod you took up to the holosuites?”

Bashir gestured toward the tube of crimson liquid lying abandoned on his console, under the spinning representations of a ketamisine compound in ever-changing configurations. “See for yourself. There’s nothing on it.”  _Not any more, anyway._  It seemed that this was a day for telling half-truths and discovering entire worlds of hidden meaning.

Odo nodded again and crossed to the console to retrieve the rod. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be back if I have any further questions.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disturb me unless absolutely necessary. I have less than seven hours to come up with an antidote and I may well need every minute.”

Odo gave him a final long look, as if measuring him in every dimension, then bowed his chin and took his leave. Bashir gazed after him, briefly troubled by that evaluating gaze, then gave himself a little shake and dismissed the matter from his mind: he could afford no distractions. There’d be time to worry about such things later, when he knew if the world was going to go on with Garak or without him.

He walked back to the console and took his seat again. “Computer, enumerate and summarize all test sequences to date.”

The ketamisine representation paused in its rotations.  _”Completing test sequence three hundred and thirty-five. No antidote found.”_

Bashir sat back in his chair and stared up at the microscopic enemy that had led to this surreal shattering of his life. It was only an arrangement of chemicals, itself devoid of motivation or passion or volition, but at that moment he hated it as fiercely as if it were a conscious agent of the distant malevolence that had sent it winging into his friend’s flesh.

“Discontinue current test sequence set,” he ordered. Both intellect and instinct told him that this line of inquiry was now pointless. It was time to get more wildly creative. “Append neuropeptide sequence B-13 to weak bond 2 and neuropeptide sequence K-2 to neutralized carbon junction 5 of the sample and execute.”

The computer beeped.  _”Toxin unaffected.”_

He barely resisted the urge to put his head in his hands and set free a moan of despair. Pure probability calculations told him the search was hopeless: he was looking for a needle not in a haystack, but in an entire grassland. He thought of the wide plain in Garak’s holographic simulation, desolate and beautiful, and the image revived his determination to see that place again someday, if only in Garak’s descriptions of his own dreams.

“Computer.” He deliberately did not look toward the biobed. “State patient prognosis.”

 _“The patient will experience irreversible organ failure in seven hours, two minutes.”_

He set aside all doubts and devoted the whole power of his enhanced mind to the task ahead, racing against the inexorable passage of time.


	5. Chapter 5

_Ketamisine_. Bashir doubted he’d ever be able to hear that name again without a bone-deep shiver of revulsion. Two hours into the renewed search for a cure he’d come to the firm (if anthopomorphic) conclusion that it was devious opponent, and that this particular version was a variation cooked up in the kitchens of Hell.

Nothing worked against it. He danced up and down its complex molecular structure, applying neuropeptide sequences like a sorcerer writing a counterspell in chemical signatures, but all of them failed to blunt its fangs or draw its venom. Every fifteen minutes he found himself checking Garak’s vitals: it was pointless and maddening but he couldn’t seem to help himself, even though he knew there was no possibility of the Cardassian rallying under the lethal assault. If nothing else he’d have a clear picture of the course of Garak’s deterioration when this was —

No! He couldn’t afford to think in terms of failure. He had too many questions that only this spy could answer, even if the answers ended up requiring no words at all. He tried not to think about that either. No distractions. There was only the ketamisine and 3,287,781 potential molecular combinations to consider in a relentlessly finite amount of time.

Nurse Jabara went off-duty, Nurse Taylor and Doctor Neana came on, and Bashir didn’t budge from his console, scarcely sparing a distracted nod for the young Starfleet ensign when she brought him a cup of Tarkalian tea unasked. 

“Can I get you something to eat, Doctor?”

“No.” He’d never felt less like eating in his life, but he smiled at her to acknowledge the kindness of the offer. “Thank you.” She smiled back, clearly charmed beneath her professional manner; she’d only been on the station for three and a half weeks and Bashir had known from the start that she’d fallen prey to his good looks. Usually the knowledge gave him a bit of a glow, although he’d never been inclined to do anything about it where she was concerned. Now it only served to remind him that he couldn’t control who found him attractive, and he turned back to his task with an even grimmer attitude.

If Garak got out of this alive, Bashir resolved to wait until he’d fully recovered and then send him right back to the Infirmary with a nasal fracture. The prospect of punching the infuriating bastard square in the nose held an undeniable appeal under the circumstances... almost as much appeal as the prospect of kissing him into helpless silence in the face of all protests, depending on Bashir’s level of hope at any given moment. 

No distractions?

No chance.

******************************

Four hours and forty-two minutes after he returned from Quark’s, the computer sounded an alert of rapid beeps.  _”Warning: the patient’s lymphatic system chemistry is destabilizing.”_

“What?” Bashir, who’d been cradling another mug of tea in his hands in spite of the fact that its warmth was long gone, sat up straighter and put the nearly-empty cup aside, his gaze flashing to Garak’s supine body. “Analysis!”

 _”Neurotoxin build-up in the patient’s myelin sheathing is adversely impacting lymphatic function.”_

“Damn it!” He shot out of the chair and crossed to the bed, already reaching for the hypospray loader standing beside it. “Computer, prepare 30 ccs of hydrocortical sulphide and 10 ccs of paracetamol.”

A melodious beep indicated that the requested drugs had been synthesized and loaded. Bashir pulled the hypo and applied it to the side of Garak’s neck, keeping his eyes on the readouts dancing across the portable console to his right. If he’d learned one thing from the incident with the implant it was that the Cardassian lymphatic system was rather sensitive to metabolic insults — he’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, although it wasn’t entirely unexpected. But if he couldn’t get Garak’s neurochemistry back in line, death could potentially take him in less than an hour.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the graphs running into the red. “Come on, Garak, don’t do this to me...”

After eight seconds the indicators started to fall back to the proper benchmarks for this stage of Garak’s dying process due to ketamisine poisoning, and Bashir found himself breathing again. A glance at the sLORETA indicated that he was still conscious, and Bashir set the hypo back in its dock and laid a hand on his shoulder again. “It’s all right,” he said. “The drugs worked. I’ve got your condition back under control again.”

 _’Under control’ is a relative term, Doctor._  For a split second Bashir wondered about telepathy, the voice in his head sounded so real. 

He smiled and voiced his response aloud: “I know that’s a relative term, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.” His hand slid up to the neckridge and he applied gentle pressure, feeling the cool thick scales under his fingertips and hoping that the contact brought some comfort. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He went back to the console and took his seat again, setting an alarm to remind him to administer another combined dose of hydrocortical sulphide and paracetamol every half-hour. 

Each subsequent glance at the sLORETA readings, however, revealed that Garak remained awake and alert. Perhaps he was reluctant to lose even a moment of whatever life remained to him, or afraid that he’d slip away if he dozed off.

Bashir saw no point in acknowledging his own fears in that respect.

******************************

He sipped more tea. He gave semi-hourly injections. He paced, calling out ever more complex combinations of educated guesses. He tried not to think about anything else. 

“Computer, update prognosis.”

 _“The patient will suffer irreversible organ failure in two hours, twelve —”_

“All right!” 

 _Hush, my dear. Just listen._

It was late. Beyond the Infirmary doors the Promenade was almost empty. Doctor Neana and Nurse Taylor were staying out of his way and he was walking the floor, circling the biobed as he talked his way through the battle, beyond caring what he looked like or what his colleagues might be thinking.

Odo had not returned. He was grateful for small mercies. He had no more time to spare.

 _There are so many things I regret never being able to teach you, but rest assured that the desire was always there..._

“Damn you, Garak!” He spoke softly, without looking directly at the paralyzed man as he circled the head of his deathbed. “Damn you and your secrecy! Damn you and your stubbornness! Damn you and your...”

 _Your friendship alone was enough._

Bashir closed his eyes hard for an instant, both pained and unsurprised.

“Damn you and your lies...”

******************************

One hour.

The sLORETA revealed that Garak’s brain was finally suffering hypoxia. No doubt he was starting to hallucinate in his corpselike silence. Activity in his amygdala increased sharply, revealing that whatever he was experiencing had strong components of both memory and emotion.

Bashir had moved on to ever-wilder sets of factors. Perhaps the application of an enzyme would help? Not so far, but it was the most likely of a statistically tiny set of possibilities. He was snapping through combinations now in a rapid monotone, his voice grown hoarse. The tea no longer helped to ease his throat.

Garak dreamed. Was he dreaming of Cardassia? Was his last image going to be of an ancient forest and cloud-shadows chasing themselves across a distant plain he would never again see?

 _Is his last thought going to be of me?_

For a moment his voice faltered, then came back stronger than ever.

******************************

Forty-three minutes. 

“Doctor Bashir?”

Nurse Taylor stood in the doorway, her green eyes questioning, a tray of food in her hands.

He shook his head at her. She went away, but not before offering a look of silent sympathy.

Bashir wondered if it was that obvious, then dismissed the thought. If he failed he wasn’t going to care who saw his reaction. Why should he worry about it now?

******************************

Twenty-two minutes. He had returned to his chair and sat slumped back, staring at the aspect of his enemy looming above him. 

“Computer.” He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to ignore the anguished stinging of his eyes. Exhaustion and panic were not a pleasant mix. “Append neuropeptide sequence R-37 and reversed neuropeptide sequence Q-27 to rizome interstice 12 at thirty degrees apposition, with simultaneous application of glyoxalase II to the sample.” It was the longest of long shots, a total shot in the dark. Interstice 12 wasn’t a point of chemical reactivity in any ketamisine compound on record, and glyoxalase I had proven useless in all previous simulations. But he was running out of options and running out of time. Garak was less than half an hour away from being utterly beyond his power to save. “Execute test sequence six hundred and thirty-eight.”

A few seconds of silence, then a mild melodious chirp. The model stopped spinning and the border around it turned green.  _“The toxin sample has been neutralized.”_

For a moment the words didn’t process. Then Bashir’s head came up sharply and he sat up, leaning forward in his chair, scarcely believing it. “Rerun test sequence.”

Another, shorter pause. Another chirp.  _“Confirmed. The toxin sample has been neutralized.”_

Ignoring the new pounding of his heart, he pushed to his feet and went back to the bedside. Life or death: he’d known that neither outcome was going to be easy. “Computer, prepare an effective dose of the antitoxin for patient Elim Garak, calculated for current neural plasticity and body weight.”

The loader beeped.  _“Antitoxin prepared.”_

He pulled the hypo, administered the injection, and redocked it automatically, his eyes never leaving Garak’s face. The silence that fell seemed to vibrate as his gaze flicked between the portable console and the cortical monitors on Garak’s forehead, watching for the telltale signs that he was returning from the edge. He might not. He wasn’t young, and time had almost run out. But Bashir knew from recent experience what a tough old serpent he could be, and he took the cold grey hand in his again to give him a lifeline, to pull him back. 

“Come on, Garak.” It had been a command before. Now it was a plea. “I know you can hear me. I’m not letting you go, so you can just forget about dying on me. You’re not getting out of this that easily.” The readouts fluctuated, trending down, and he tightened his grip. “Don’t you  _dare!_ ” The fierceness of the words hurt his aching throat. “Don’t you  _dare_  leave me like this! If you do, I swear I’ll follow you into the afterlife just to —”

A spasm of faint pressure under his fingers. Answering, or dying? He gripped back, moving his left hand to join his right and watching the readouts flutter. He didn’t dare administer another medication: it might send Garak into a complete metabolic tailspin. All he could do was observe, and as much as he tried to cultivate the detachment that had been so carefully trained into him he found himself failing miserably. 

Three minutes and sixteen seconds post-antidote: it felt like eternity, but at last Garak’s shallow breathing suddenly deepened, sharp as a knife-stab, and he was wracked by a full-body shudder, his expressive face twisting. Looking at the monitors, Bashir felt relief wash through him as the indicators settled down and began to gradually creep — in the right direction. 

He’d almost been too late, but that wasn’t enough for the purposes of his enemy. The ketamisine had been defeated. Against all odds, he’d won.

Now all he had to do was live with the consequences.

He watched Garak shiver and twitch until the cortical monitor indicated that the Cardassian’s mind was as clear as it was likely to get under the circumstances, then spoke quietly but firmly: “Breathe, Garak. Just breathe. Your vital signs and neural conductivity have been improving steadily for the last eight minutes. The ketamisine compound is being broken down. You’re going to recover.”

“Doc-tor...” He shouldn’t have been able to speak. Bashir’s estimation of his resilience went up another notch. 

“Don’t try to talk.” He emphasized the order by squeezing Garak’s hand between his. “You’re not strong enough. There’ll be time enough for that later. Right now I want you to rest, and in a few hours we’ll see about getting you something to eat.”

No answer but laboured breathing. After a moment Bashir released his hand and started to turn away, only to have Garak’s fingers close on his wrist with a snake’s unexpected quickness in spite of the tremors. He turned back and gently removed the hand, setting it back down at Garak’s side. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be just over there. I need to continue monitoring your progress.”

“Thought...” His eyes were still closed, his voice a weak croak. It sounded even worse than Bashir’s. “... I was going... to recover...”

“Oh, you are. But you may still need medication to keep you comfortable.” He gently pressed the cold grey fingers. “Sleep. I promise, I’ll take care of you.”

Again he struggled, trying to say something more. Bashir smiled at his persistence and leaned over to still his lips with a kiss. The real thing felt better than the hologram by far, both more electric and more bittersweet. “Now,” he said sternly, straightening to his full height, “will that hold you for a little while? Or are you going to make me kiss you again?”

Garak’s eyes had opened and he was looking up at his Human friend with such manifest surprise that it made Bashir smile in spite of his exhaustion. If he could elicit that reaction on a regular basis, punching Garak in the nose might not prove to be necessary after all. 

“Sleep,” he advised, and went back to his station at the console. This time the chair felt welcoming, cushioning his weary back in a way that invited a nap, but he had a report to prepare and several hours of monitoring still ahead of him. He wasn’t going to trust Garak’s care to anyone else for the moment, not when every second he had with the Cardassian felt like a gift nearly lost forever. Never in his career could he recall feeling such joy that a patient was going to survive... or such quiet fear at what might be to come as a result. 

He glanced toward the biobed, where his friend seemed to have settled down with his eyes closed once more, uncharacteristically obedient. Garak was dangerous. He was a spy and a murderer and a liar. God only knew what atrocities he’d committed in the hidden past: Bashir was certain he’d never know, at least not from Garak’s own lips.

But he was also a tailor, and a mentor, and a friend who’d left everything he possessed to the one man he seemed to trust. Everything — including, perhaps, his heart. Someday soon Bashir would have to remember to thank N’noal Tessar for her premature delivery of that box, even if Garak would probably view it as a gross dereliction of her duties. As a lawyer she would, of course, argue that it was all in the interpretation. He smiled, imagining the heated discussion that was certainly going to ensue between Bekaran and Cardassian the next time they met. He’d have to do his best to convince Garak to continue to make use of her services: after all, he would argue, they owed her so much. 

Bashir swivelled just long enough to call toward the door leading into the administrative area — “Nurse Taylor, would you please bring me some more tea and a plate of hasperat?” — before turning his attention to the new tasks at hand. He did not raise his eyes to the chronometer which continued to steadily mark the minutes and the seconds on the screen above him. He had no need to.

Now, he felt like he had all the time in the world.

THE END


End file.
